The worst thing about my sister is she’s
such a girl. Well, I’m a girl too, but I’m not
a dinky-pinky, silly-frilly girlie
girl. Think cupcakes and
cuddly teddies and charm
bracelets – that’s Melissa.
She leaves a little
pink trail around the
house – sparkly slides
and ribbons and
notebooks.
You breathe in her revolting scent long
after she’s gone off to hang out at her
friends’ houses. She’s not allowed to wear
real perfume yet, but she’s got this rose
hand cream that smells really strongly.
She doesn’t just rub it on her hands, she
smoothes it in all over, so she’s always
slightly slippery.
Her lips shine too, because she’s forever
smearing on lip gloss. She’s not really
supposed to wear make-up yet either,
only for play, but she’s got a big plastic
bag patterned with pink kittens, and it’s
crammed full of eye shadows and mascara
and blusher. It used to be just Mum’s old
stuff, but now Melissa spends half her
pocket money in Superdrug.
When Melissa was in the loo, I crept
into her ultra pink and fluffy bedroom
to borrow a pen as mine had all run out.
I couldn’t find her school bag – it must
have been downstairs by the computer –
so in desperation I looked in her plastic
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make-up bag. I found a brand-new eye
pencil with a perfect point and its own cool
little sharpener.
I went back to my Marty Den, sat on
my top bunk, and started drawing an
amazing new adventure of Mighty Mart. I
didn’t mean to use a lot of the pencil. I was
just going to do a quick sketch. But then I
had this great idea of giving Mighty Mart
giant springs in her feet, so she could jump
– b-o-i-n-g – over rooftops and lampposts
and trees. Drawing all these astonishing
feats took up three full pages in my sketchbook – and most of Melissa’s eye pencil.
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Then Melissa poked her nose into my
Marty Den, rabbiting on about some missing
hairbrush. (I’d experimented gluing it onto
the back of a little mangled teddy, turning
him into a pretty cool porcupine
called Percy.) She failed to spot
him snuffling for ants under my
bunk beds, but she did see the
stub of her eye pencil in my hot
little hand.
‘You horrible thieving pig!’ she gasped.
‘That pencil was brand-new – and there’s
hardly any left now.’
‘Well, it’s not very good value then, is
it?’ I said, a little unwisely. Maybe I should
have said sorry – but she did call me a pig.
Not that I actually dislike pigs. I think
they’re very cute, and I love scratching
their backs with a stick when we go to the
children’s zoo.
Anyway, do you know what Melissa did?
She ripped all three pages out of my book
and tore them to shreds. I couldn’t believe
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she could be so hateful. I mean, she could
always buy another silly pencil. I might
even have paid half out of my pocket money.
But I’d spent two whole hours drawing
Mighty Mart, and now she was just confetti
on the carpet. So I thumped Melissa in
the chest. And she slapped my face. And
then we were rolling around on the floor,
shoving and screaming.
I’m a much better fighter
than Melissa, but she
scratches with her
pointy fingernails.
I’m fast and furious
and I know how to
punch properly, but
Melissa is a lot bigger
than me.
Perhaps that’s the worst thing
about my sister. She’s two and a half years
older, and no matter how hard I try I can
never catch up.
I’d have still beaten her, I’m sure of it.
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If we’d been left to our own devices, Melissa
would have ended up as pink pulp, but
Mum came running out of her bedroom
and barged into my Marty Den to stop us.
‘What are you doing?
Stop it at once, Martina and
Melissa! You know you are
absolutely strictly forbidden
to fight. You’re not little
guttersnipes, you’re girls.’
She pulled us apart and
stood us on our feet. ‘How dare
you!’ she hissed. ‘Especially
today, when Mrs Evans and Alisha are
in my bedroom and can hear everything.
Alisha’s such a sweet little girl too. You’d
never catch her fighting.’
‘Alisha’s such a wuss she couldn’t punch
her way out of a paper bag,’ I said.
Alisha is in my class at school and I
absolutely can’t stand her. She sucks up
to Katie and Ingrid, the two really mean,
scary girls. She gives them crisps and
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chocolates so they won’t pick on her. She
loves it if they pick on someone else. Like
me.
I didn’t invite her round to our house.
As if! She came round with her mother
because our mother was making her a
party dress. Mum was starting to
become famous for making terrible
frilly frocks with smocking and
embroidery and a thousand and
one prickly net petticoats. She
used to make matching dresses
for Melissa and me when we
were really little. I used to
scream my head off and keep
my arms pressed tight against
my sides to stop her putting one
on me. Melissa used to like hers, and
would flounce around swishing her skirts
in an especially sickening way. Nowadays
even she has seen sense and says smocked
dresses are babyish and embarrassing, the
exact opposite of cool.
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But our dresses became a terrible talking
point in our neighbourhood, and other mums
still want to inflict frills on their little kids,
so Mum’s wondering if she can make a little
money out of making dresses. She’s busy
designing party dresses and bridesmaids’
dresses and confirmation dresses. So busy
she doesn’t always have time to look at what
we’re wearing. When we’re not stuck in our
rubbish red-and-white check school uniform,
Melissa hitches up her skirts and wears
tight tops and puts socks in her training
bra. She thinks she looks much older,
practically a teenager. She is so pathetic.
I wear my comfy jeans and
my pow! T-shirt and my tartan
Converse boots. I wear them
again and again because
they’re my favourite clothes,
so I don’t see the point of
wearing any others.
‘Look at the state of you!’
said Mum. She shook us both
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and then continued to hang onto my T-shirt,
peering at it. ‘For goodness’ sake, Martina,
this T-shirt’s filthy!’
‘It’s just a little dribble of orange juice
when I laughed at the wrong time at supper.
It’s so weird when it all comes spouting out
of your nose.’
‘That was days ago! You know perfectly
well you’re supposed to put on a clean T-shirt
every day. Have I got to stand over you and
dress you like a baby?’ said Mum.
Melissa sniggered, which was a stupid
move.
‘I’m very shocked at you, Melissa. You
really ought to know better. You’re the
eldest. What were you thinking of, fighting
with your little sister?’
‘She used up nearly all my eye pencil,
Mum, scribbling her silly cartoons.’
‘Mighty Mart is a comic strip, not a
cartoon. And you tore it all up, and I spent
ages on it.’
‘As if any of this matters,’ said Mum.
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‘Now, tidy yourselves up. Melissa, you go
downstairs and get the pizzas out of the
freezer. Martina, change that T-shirt now.
And both of you, stop showing me up in
front of Mrs Evans.’
As if on cue, Mrs Evans started calling
from Mum’s bedroom: ‘I think you’ve made
Alisha’s dress a little on the skimpy side,
Mrs Michaels. She can scarcely breathe!’
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs
Evans. Don’t worry – I can always let it out
a little at the seams,’ she called back.
‘And I’m not sure the hem’s straight. It’s
difficult to tell, what with your bed being
in the way of your wardrobe mirror – but
it seems to ride right up in the front,’ Mrs
Evans moaned.
‘That’s because of Alisha’s great fat
stomach!’ I muttered.
‘Martina!’ said Mum – but she was
trying not to laugh. She hurried off and left
Melissa and me glaring at each other.
‘Tell-tale,’ I said.
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‘You told too. And that eye pencil cost
four ninety-nine.’
‘Then you’re bonkers wasting your
pocket money like that.’
‘It’s going to be your pocket money!
You’re going to buy me a new one.’
‘No, you’re going to buy me a new
drawing pad seeing as you’ve ruined this
one. Now get out of my den. You’re not
allowed in here – can’t you read?’ I said.
I had stuck a very clear notice on my
door.
‘You’ve got a cheek, seeing as you went
into my room to nick my eye pencil. You’re
such a waste of space, Marty. If only I had
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a proper sister. Why do you always have to
be so weird?’
Melissa flounced off down to the
kitchen. I sat biting my nails, thinking up
a wonderful new sequence for Mighty Mart
where she turns ultra weird overnight,
with prickles all over and great fangs – all
the better for biting people. But I couldn’t
draw her because I didn’t have anything
to draw with, as Melissa had reclaimed
her eye pencil and all my pens had either
run out or exploded. There was a very inky
corner of my school bag, especially the bit
where I’d stuffed my PE kit, but I wasn’t in
the mood for investigating it.
I didn’t change my T-shirt either. My
clothes were mostly cast-offs from Melissa,
dreadful limp pink things with bunnies
and kittens. I like bunnies and kittens,
but not as cutesy-pie pictures on T-shirts.
I’d have given anything for a proper pet,
though not necessarily something fluffy. A
real porcupine would be ultra-cool. Or a
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turtle who could live in the bath.
Or a hyena that laughed at my
jokes – though I’d probably
have to keep him in a cage
in the garden. I’m not sure
you could ever house-train a
hyena. I imagined it savaging Mum’s silks and satins
and squatting on Alisha’s
lilac party dress. I did a
hyena laugh myself going
across the landing.
‘Martina!’ Mum hissed, putting her head
out of the door.
I saw Alisha’s mum behind her, eyes all
beady, and Alisha herself in her knickers.
She really did have a big tummy.
‘Could you just behave? And change
that dreadful T-shirt!’ said Mum. She
pulled that face that means Do as I say
this instant or you’ll be for it!
I put the kitten T-shirt on back to front
so I couldn’t see the cutesy furry face, and
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went stomping downstairs. I put
my hand over my mouth because
I badly wanted to let out another
hyena laugh and I knew this
would not be a good idea.
I avoided the kitchen, where Melissa
was juggling pizzas and clattering cutlery,
laying the trays for supper, doing her I’m
the good big sister act. I went into the front
room to check on Dad.
It isn’t really the front room any more.
It’s become Dad’s travel agency office. Dad
used to have a real travel agent’s shop
down that street near Sainsbury’s, but he
had to give it up because the lease was
too expensive and he didn’t make enough
money any more.
He set up as a travel agent in our front
room instead. We went to Ikea to buy some
shelving, but they didn’t have the sort Dad
wanted, so we bought our own MDF, which
was much more fun. Dad was Carpenter-inChief and I was his Number One Assistant
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when it came to painting all the planks
white. We had to do it outside in the garden
because Mum was terrified I’d tip the paint
over, but I didn’t spill a drop! When they
were dry I helped Dad fix all the shelves in
place – and they looked terrific.
Melissa helped him display all his travel
books and brochures on our beautiful new
shelves, and Mum framed all these posters
of mountains and lakes and white sandy
beaches and hung them on the walls. Dad set
up his computer, and there he was, all ready
for the rush of customers. But nobody came.
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Well, a few clients came – really old ones
who couldn’t use a computer to book their
own holidays. Dad fixed up a weekend in
Paris here, ten days in Tenerife there, but
for the most part he sat all by himself,
scrolling down all the amazing holiday
offers on his screen. Sometimes he switched
off and simply gazed at the mountains and
the lakes and the beaches on the walls.
We didn’t have enough money now to
go away on holiday ourselves, even though
Dad was trying his hardest to support
the family and be successful. We just
had Mum’s money from her sewing and
working as a school secretary. Our school
secretary. It was a bit odd being sent to
the office with the register and seeing your
own mum behind the desk. We were meant
to call her Mrs Michaels there, but I didn’t
always remember.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I said.
‘Hey, Marty,’ he said, sighing.
I stood right in front of him and tickled
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his head. He sighed again, but he reached
out and tickled my head.
‘Hey, Curlynob,’ we said in unison.
It’s our little ritual, to show we’re
mates. Dad has very fair frizzy
curls, even though his hair
is cut really short. I’d give
anything to have my hair
cut really short but Mum
won’t let me. I have to have
it loose to my shoulders
at home and in awful little
plaits at school. My curly hair
drives me mad – but I love being
like Dad.
Melissa has very straight mouse-brown
hair. She never says, but I think she’d give
anything to have my fair curls. Don’t get
the idea that I’m pretty, though! I’ve got a
snub nose and a pointy chin, and go freckly
in the summer.
I pulled a funny face now to try to make
Dad laugh, because he was looking very
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sad. He chuckled politely, but it wasn’t a
real laugh.
‘Hey, do you want to hear my hyena
laugh?’ I said, and I demonstrated.
‘Oh, help, help, I’m fwightened!’ said
Dad, pretending to be little. ‘There’s a big
bad hyena in the room and it’s coming to
get me!’
‘The big bad hyena is in a spot of trouble,
Dad,’ I said. ‘It scribbled with its sister’s eye
pencil, and then it got into a fight, and its
mother got cross because that awful podgy
Alisha Evans and her mum are up in our
bedroom.’
‘Oh Lord, I forgot they were coming. I
think I might have left the bed all rumpled
when I had a nap after lunch,’ said Dad.
He had lots of naps now because he didn’t
have anything else to do. ‘I probably left
my pyjamas out in a heap. Looks like I’m
in a spot of bother too.’
‘I wish Mum didn’t get grumpy all the
time,’ I said.
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‘Now, now, your mum only gets cross
because we’re such a slobby pair and she’s
working very, very hard,’ said Dad.
‘I’ve been working very, very hard, Dad.
I did three whole pages of Mighty Mart,
only somebody came along and ripped
them all up.’
‘You’re my Mighty Mart,’ said Dad, and
he pulled me onto his knee for a cuddle.
I snuggled up with my chin on his
shoulder, staring at the posters on
the wall. Mighty Mart would stomp
all the way up that mountain
in a matter of minutes, she’d
swim across the lake
like it was a duck pond,
and then she’d lie on
the white beach and
let a whole team
of little kids
try to bury
her in the
sand.
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Just when they thought they’d trapped
her so she’d have to stay motionless like a
monument for ever, she’d laugh and jump
up and send them all scattering as she
strode away in her giant Converse boots.